


We're Stronger Together

by FourthFloorWrites



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe – Bikers, Autobots are a motorcycle club, Canon-Typical Violence, Crack Taken Seriously, Decepticons are a nonprofit, Developing Relationship, Happy Ending, M/M, Transformers Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing, Unreliable Narrator(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2020-12-27 17:21:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21122456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourthFloorWrites/pseuds/FourthFloorWrites
Summary: The mining town of Quintessa is in dire straits.Megatron, local hero and Executive Director of the Decepticon Labor Rights Coalition, has been cast out of his role, and his successor, Starscream, is prepared to take drastic measures to see to the end of a years-long mining strike. The same night, the Autobot Motorcycle Club rolls into town, bringing Bumblebee, the Vice President trying to find his place in the world, and newest recruit Rodimus, working to build one.The lives, passions, and secrets of these four mechs are about to intertwine, and the results will be historic, provided the city’s inhabitants survive long enough to recount them.





	1. Get-off

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to my dear friend, who supports my weird ideas, who makes me laugh, who inspires me to do better in all things. You’re the reason I know I’m lucky <3
> 
> Disclaimer: Views expressed by the characters and/or narration do not necessarily reflect the views of the author.

The office energon was swill. Basic and diluted, it was the cheapest they could get before the energy content was less than that which it took a fuel tank to process it. There was something about the aftertaste tonight though, a subtle, sweet brightness, that Starscream found himself tolerating. He indulged in a long, slow pull, set the cube down on his new desk, and pinged open the door.

“Come in, Soundwave.”

Swerve’s stood at the eastern end of Quintessa, a relic of a time before the mine operators bought up the last of the city’s property and reformatted it into a vehicle of consumption and efficiency. A generous sum had been donated to the establishment to bring it up to code with the rest of the block, and now it sported the same boxy, level shape and inset windows as everything else. Most mechanisms found that the uniformity made the seams around the base stand out more rather than less, but the owner had been okay with the tradeoff, using the extra funds to replace the sign above the door. Big, red, looping letters glowed out harshly into the dimming light, but Megatron hardly noticed them, standing out front just long enough for the automatic doors to open before he stalked inside.

The interior of the bar had changed some from the last time he’d been there, but not in any way meaningful enough to give him pause as he approached the counter. He did appreciate, as he neared, that an additional energon distillery had been added, even if both it and one of the older models were empty. The remaining two contained fluids in fluorescent pink and sickly green, their iridescence speaking to the high concentrations necessary to have an effect on the bar’s usual clientele.

The mech behind the bar was just finishing up with another customer as Megatron approached but threw a wide smile at him as soon as he was done, visor brightening.

“Megatron!” he called, voice that of a mech whose personnel cache had deleted the partition between ‘customers’ and ‘friends.’ “Been so long since I’ve last seen you! Work keeping you busy, I guess. Strike going well?”

The pistons in Megatron’s hand stiffened and pinched, and he had to squeeze the fingertips to his palm to relieve them of the tension. In his peripheral, he thought he saw the other patron glance down.

“—not great for business, but that’s to be expected, I guess, not as much shanix floating around and most regulars down at the mines all the time anyway. Wish there was more I could do, but I’ve been helping however I can. Mostly passing out my overstock—well, I was, until Ravage dropped by to tell me to quit overcharging the strikers. Nearly guttered me, I could’ve sworn I locked up before—”

“A drink, Swerve.”

Megatron’s voice, boosted by the growl of his engine, caused Swerve to jump. Seeing the flicker again, Megatron whipped his helm to the side, but his neighbor was already back to minding their own business.

“Double or triple distilled?” Swerve asked, drawing the tank’s attention once more. His tone was light, and his faceplate still wore an easy customer service smile, but it was impossible for Megatron to miss the way his hands shook as he reached for a glass.

“The latter,” he said, optics locked on the bartender as he stilled for a moment, then nodded and approached the correct refinery.

Swerve attempted to make further conversation but was interrupted when the glass slipped out of his hand and clattered to the floor, landing with a spray of thick, green engex. Megatron stared in silence as, without cleaning the mess, he grabbed a new one, filled it, and placed it on the bar.

“There you go, Megatron, on the h—”

Megatron set down his shanix hard enough to scratch the counter’s finish, took up his drink, and turned away. There were booths along one wall with long tables and high backs; likely intended for groups, they were also the most readily available seating to accommodate the tankformer and offered the closest one could come to privacy in the open bar. Any shame Megatron might have once felt over taking a whole table for himself was overshadowed by his disgust at being brought to this level in the first place.

Getting overcharged with his engines already running this hot was a poor decision, but he didn’t know what else to do with himself. The office and the mines, the two locations specified as off-limits in the contract, had also been the two focal points around which he based the rest of his life. Even his own apartment was little more than a refuge to retreat to when Hook decided he’d worked too many days in a row and commanded he take an evening off.

He tipped his helm back and poured the engex down his intake, letting it warm his internals and dull the sound of Hook’s voice replaying from his memory files.

“—_board of directors feels that, in light of your recent conduct among the senior staff, your systems are likely taxed and in need of reprieve from the office environment. They’re recommending a minimum of_—"

His engine growled again, and he forced himself to online his optics, unable to remember when he’d shut them off and scoffing at the luxury of it. Miners who allowed their attention to wander risked the lives of themselves and crew members, either by falling debris, volatile materials, or unsafe use of equipment. And then there was him, above ground, getting lost in his thoughts while working on a glass of engex he didn’t even need to have paid for. His expression twisted into a snarl, acutely aware that his frame had become a caricature of the upper classes he had once committed himself to fighting against.

It was the city that had done this to him, the operators who ran it and the buyers who supported it. Even the organization he’d founded, fueled by energon siphoned from his own lines, had been integrated into the machine that worked to bend and twist his purpose, modifying him until his original function had been wholly replaced. The mount on his back that had once supported his turret ached, the same way it had the day Shockwave convinced him its removal would go to the benefit of the cause.

He took another drink of engex, hoping for a steadiness he knew would not come. More mechanisms were filtering into the bar, and although most who spotted him knew his designation, none approached. Not because his name commanded the respect of a leader, but that of a celebrity, too far removed from the masses to have a place in their world.

“The meetings with the strike leaders are over?” Starscream asked, no greeting or preamble. Soundwave would have ignored either one anyway, and while Starscream’s thrusters were hitching for an opportunity to gloat, he knew enough to save it for another time. This mech just happened to be one of the few in the building who was worth the effort of his appeasement.

“Ravage is concluding his discussion with Shrapnel,” Soundwave corrected. “The latter had logistical concerns which will be forwarded to you after the conclusion of the meeting. Laserbeak was sent to assist Frenzy with Runabout and Runamuck; current efforts are proving insufficient in explaining changing circumstances.”

“Recall Laserbeak and Frenzy,” Starscream said, leaning back in his chair, a bit of choreography to show the ease with which he handled command. “If those two haven’t understood something by the third time it’s been explained to them, they just don’t have the combined processor space to manage it. As long as we keep telling them they’re doing a good job and give them things to do, they’ll listen to us.”

“Very well.”

Starscream felt a thrill and had to stop his wings from quivering; it was such a novel feeling, to issue instructions and have them followed without argument or derision. As Director of Advocacy for the Decepticon Labor Rights Coalition (or just the Decepticons, for the benefit of those members for whom a four-syllable word was enough of a challenge), confidentiality had required that he not have direct access or control over the cases being managed within his department. Now, as acting Executive Director, his influence spread to the campaigns side of the organization, which meant working with Soundwave and, more importantly, telling him what to do.

“That still leaves Rumble, Buzzsaw, and Laserbeak’s original assignment,” Starscream said, allowing himself the full pride of having memorized the names of Soundwave’s staff. “What have they reported?”

“Needlenose and Onslaught expressed concern for strikers’ continued faith in the Decepticon cause, citing exhaustion, wage insecurity, and general frustration among their crews. Overlord made no overt accusations, but Buzzsaw reports that he implied a loss in global support to coincide with the announcement of Megatron’s leave of absence.”

Soundwave listed off each item like he was reporting inventory for the office supply closet.

“Of course.” Starscream took up the energon again and slowly drained the cube, using the time to consider his response. Soundwave stared, impassive, not so much as flinching when Starscream set it back down with the delicacy of an energon crystal splintering under one’s heel.

“What do you think, Soundwave?” he asked, leaning back again. “Be thorough.”

Soundwave nodded.

“The Decepticon reputation was damaged from Swindle’s embezzlement case and subsequent firing,” he said, visor brightening a lux as he retrieved and compiled the data. “Though efforts had been made to quell rumors of elitism within senior staff, the excessive media attention provoked further reports that the organization’s actions no longer align with its stated values.

“Megatron’s practices as a director were unsustainable for long-term management of the organization. However, membership surveys indicate that his involvement has had direct influence in 64% of signups, and 78% cited his involvement as inspirational towards continued commitment to the organization and its goals. His absence will have an impact on the willingness of the strikers to continue, although current data is insufficient for the purposes of determining the degree.”

Starscream nodded twice, slowly, optics drifting over the office space as he leaned forward in the oversized chair, tapping his fingertips together. It was incredible how any mech, even a tank, could take up so much space without physically being in the room. At Starscream’s behest, Hook and the rest of the Cybertronian Resources department had removed most of Megatron’s personal effects from the office earlier that day. The chair had stayed, though now he was considering switching it out for a flight frame-compatible model, as had the placard reading ‘Executive Director.’ The rest had been boxed and put into storage, but all it had done so far was heighten the sense of void in the room.

Once this was over, he decided, he would get started moving his own things in, make clear who was occupying the role now.

It was moments like this, engine gunning underneath him, hands gripping handlebars, wind rushing past his face, that Rodimus remembered—and cherished—what it meant to be free.

Beneath him, Optimus, feeding off his exuberance, revved his engine louder. They sailed down the street, bodies vibrating with the power of Optimus’ motor, with the traction under his wheels. Rodimus could feel the temperature differential between his legs and his helm, and it filled the rest of his frame with a pleasant, warm energy that he then turned back to the bike carrying him through the city streets.

_Next right,_ he sent down the hardline, knowing that his voice would be swallowed up if he tried to use his vocalizer now.

_Understood_, Optimus returned. He started to bank them to the right and Rodimus followed, shifting his weight and leaning to the side so that bike and rider together cleared the turn. There was a moment of relative silence as they righted themselves, and then the telltale sound of two additional ‘cycles whipping around the corner just behind them, coming to flank them on either side.

Without thinking, Rodimus leaned his full weight back, pulling Optimus into a wheelie as they sailed down the street. A quick glance over confirmed Ratchet doing the same atop Ironhide to his left, and Sideswipe copying on his right, going so far as to reach his legs up and hook them over Sunstreaker’s handlebars. The young but experienced rider was smirking as they breezed in front of Optimus, only slowing down once he’d righted himself and Sunstreaker’s front wheel had returned to the ground.

Rodimus cheered them on, not caring that his voice melted away into the clamor of ‘cycle engines all gunning at once.

_Your enthusiasm is infectious,_ Optimus sent, also dropping out of the wheelie, _but I do need to know where we’re going._

_We’re close,_ Rodimus assured. _The place is just a few blocks ahead._

Rodimus almost regretted his honesty as he felt Optimus start to slow down in response, brakes applied gradually while his engine toned down from roar to enthusiastic growl. They were coasting by the time the red sign came into view and were able to come to a perfect stop when they were directly in front of it. They paused, allowing their cooling systems to cycle cool air through their engines, before Rodimus flipped the safety latches and unhooked them from each other. He hopped off at the same time that Ratchet and Ironhide pulled up beside them; Optimus transformed as Sideswipe and Sunstreaker flew past, disappearing around the end of the block to get a few more laps in.

More Autobots rolled up in their pairs, the crowd outside the bar growing steadily and the air dense with voices. Rodimus stayed near Optimus, chatting with the mechs who approached them and occasionally making a witty jab to the President when he could think of them. There were about a dozen mechs loitering around by the time Bumblebee arrived, Prowl barely waiting for him to dismount before returning to root mode and walking over, shoulders hunched and cowl flaring.

“I was becoming concerned, old friend,” Optimus said in greeting. “It’s unusual for our Road Captain to be so far behind,” he softened his voice, “and even more so to see you in vehicle mode.”

“I tried to keep up, Prime, but Bee kept insisting that we slow down to wait for—what did you call them, Bee? Slackers?” He looked over, but Bumblebee was too busy staring at the ground to rise to the bait. “It was my idea that we switch, after maintaining pace took higher priority to directing members.”

“Mm,” Optimus hummed. Rodimus saw the glance he threw toward his Vice President. “I apologize that you were forced to make that decision. I’ll talk to Bumblebee.”

“Thank you,” Prowl said, nodding once in respect before turning to join the other veteran members. Rodimus glanced between them, the withdrawn stance so unbecoming on Bumblebee, and Optimus’ worried expression, and decided that somebody had to change the evening’s current momentum

“Want to take a look inside?” he asked, drawing Optimus’ attention down to him and away from whatever drama was festering within the club’s leadership. Hopefully, the coming evening would be good enough to smooth over whatever rough edges had cropped up on the drive. “The mechs I talked to swore that this is the best place around for a celebration, and it seems like a party could really be what everyone needs right now.”

“Indeed,” Optimus said. “I hadn’t realized my absence could be the root of such discord among our ranks. My first duty as reinstated President will have to be rectifying that mistake.” He straightened, and any reassurance Rodimus could have made turned to fuzz in his vocalizer as the air of deliberation he’d been carrying disappeared. In its place grew the reclaimed sense of gravitas that compelled others mechs, ‘cycles and all else, to listen to him. Rodimus, who already hung onto every word the President voiced, leaned the barest inch closer.

“This is a night for celebration,” Optimus said, “and I hope all will have time to enjoy themselves and relax, now that we have reached the conclusion of a stressful period in our club’s history. Despite that, the safety of all our members is paramount. Appropriate measures will be taken to ensure it.”

Rodimus was so focused he was almost startled when he looked around and realized the rest of the assembled bikers had stopped chatting to focus on their President.

“I will go in first, flanked by our Enforcer, Ironhide, and young Rodimus.”

His spark thrilled with such pride he feared it might shine through his optics, but he kept the rest of his expression resolute.

“Ironhide, you will maintain surveillance on the other patrons. Rodimus will be keeping an optic on me. The rest of the members will stay behind until we’ve confirmed Rodimus’ report that this establishment is friendly to two-wheelers.”

Optimus kept giving out orders, something about Bumblebee staying outside to greet other club members and Ratchet maintaining order among those already arrived, but Rodimus could no longer pay attention, processor focused inward on the dawning horror that he hadn’t specified such a report.

He’d taken the recommendation from a racing frametype one town over, a cool guy with an awesome spoiler that spoke to his good taste. The sportscar had been encouraging when Rodimus had asked if this place would be accommodating to ‘cycles, but there was an important difference, one that he’d forgotten to specify, between a single biker out looking for a good time and an entire club showing up en masse. Mechs who had once been friendly became something else when threatened by numbers, and there were many out there, hidden among those kind and decent, who felt that ‘cycles just showing up and existing was a personal affront. All the Autobots had experience with situations taking a sudden, dangerous turn after nosy mechs started counting tires. None of them, with the exception of Whirl, maybe, were looking for a repeat tonight.

He needed to say something. For the safety of his fellow club members, he knew he should give a warning, let it be known that he had failed in his duty.

He looked up at Optimus and found those too-blue-to-be-constructed optics shining down at him.

“Is something the matter, Rodimus?” Optimus Prime asked him.

Rodimus’ hastily gathered resolve crumbled like rusty wires.

“Just glad to have you back, Optimus,” he said, the words underwritten with a prayer to Primus not to let this be his worst frag-up yet.

Optimus’ helm tilted to one side, and his shoulders relaxed. Rodimus was still learning how to read the larger ‘cycle’s expressions, but he was mostly confident that this was a positive development.

“As am I,” Optimus said. “I had thought I was making the responsible decision, retiring from riding and taking up my old name. I am grateful to you for taking the initiative to go against my wishes and seek me out.”

“What can I say?” Rodimus asked, grinning despite his embarrassment at the unexpected praise. “The Autobots aren’t the same without you.” It wasn’t the full reason, and Rodimus suspected Optimus knew it, but now wasn’t the time to get into that.

“Perhaps not,” he allowed, “but only to the extent that all members create change within the dynamics of the club. I am glad to hear that my influence has been perceived as a positive one.”

Rodimus would have snarked at the frankly ludicrous levels of humility being put out by his leader, were he not feeling so constricted by the conflicting emotions racking his processor. Optimus, in the meantime, turned from Rodimus and approached the bar. Seeing that Ironhide was moving into place, Rodimus allowed his systems to vent, then followed after the older ‘cycles.

Swerve’s was brighter inside than Rodimus had suspected, and livelier too, the bar clustered with a few mechs ordering drinks while several more filled the tables and booths around the edges of the open room. The music was faint, not ideal to dance to, and there didn’t seem to be a defined dancefloor. The possibility was there, though, if a few tables were pushed aside, and if the lights were dimmed a bit the massive engex distilleries could make for some killer mood lighting. It wasn’t the ideal party hub the racer had claimed it to be, but Rodimus saw potential in it.

Provided they could stay.

Most mechs didn’t look up as the Autobots walked in, but a few did, and out of those Rodimus saw a couple double take at Optimus as he strode through. Some ‘cycles found crafty ways to hide their tires or split them in half to give the illusion of two sets. Optimus, though, wore his proudly, right arm and left leg, making his frametype obvious no matter which direction it was seen from.

Behind them, the rest of the Autobots gathered at the entrance. Rodimus allowed himself a glance back and felt his spark swell further with pride. Whatever wariness they were feeling, at the potential for the situation to turn ugly, at the still-charged uncertainty among their ranks, none of it could be gleaned from their outward appearance. They took their space, spoke loud amongst each other, laughed, and let the bar lights catch on their exposed engine blocks. Reminded of the reason he’d done all this in the first place, Rodimus proudly flared his handlebars out behind him.

“Focus, kid,” Ironhide muttered. “You’re on Prime watch.”

Rodimus returned his gaze to their leader right as the latter reached the bar.

The bartender was busy with another customer, but the way he immediately turned to them when he was done indicated he’d been paying attention to their approach. He grinned when Optimus placed his hand on the counter, though with a visor in place it was difficult to tell how genuine it was.

“Can’t say I’ve seen this many new faces at once in quite a while,” the bartender said, reaching under the counter. Rodimus saw Ironhide stiffen at the edge of his vision, then relax as the hand reappeared holding a glass.

“My friends and I are celebrating this evening,” Optimus said. “I hope the crowd won’t place undo strain on your business.”

“Oh, no, I love parties, usually! All about a good party. Just depends what it’s for, is the only thing.”

Rodimus had to look up at Optimus to keep his spark from spinning too fast. Steady. Keep it cool.

“Not much, just a recent promotion,” Optimus said. “It’s been some time since we were all together and it seemed like a good excuse.”

“Mm-hm.” Scrap, the bartender wasn’t even pretending to smile now. Rodimus’ gaze darted to the side and found that several of the mechs sitting around were watching them. Back at the door, Ratchet was having a stare down with a construction vehicle at least twice his size. “What’s the new gig?”

“It’s a reappointment,” Optimus said.

The bartender was staring at him, obviously waiting for him to go on.

Rodimus’ spark spun faster.

A mech stood from one of the tables. Primus, did Quintessa have a surplus in heavy plating?

Oh, mining town. Right.

“It’s me,” Optimus said, breaking the stalemate. “I’ve resumed my position as President of the Autobot Motorcycle Club.” He did not lean over the counter, or pitch his already deep voice lower, or flare the plating on his arms that hid his small plasma pistols. He could have done any number of things to intimidate the smaller mech, but instead he kept his voice steady as he asked, “Will that be a problem?”

There was a beat in which Rodimus was certain that every mech in the building could hear his spark as it near bounced inside its chamber.

The bartender’s expression broke back into a wide grin.

“Primus, mech, is that all? On all Solus’ creations, you had me thinking you had a whole new mining crew with you, with how vague you were being.” He laughed, turning his back on the motorcycles to finally fill the glass he’d been juggling. “No, that’s not a problem at all. It’s great, actually! Like I said, we haven’t had new faces in so long, all the stories anybody tells these days we’ve all heard at least a dozen times before; I would know, I’m the one telling most of them. But a group of ‘cycles, I’m sure you’ve all seen some interesting stuff out there! More interesting than holes full of rust, that’s for sure. Not that nothing ever goes on around here. Actually, just the other day, Pipes was telling me—”

And on he went, not stopping even as he placed the engex in front of Optimus (“—on the house, my congratulations for the promotion!”) or realized that the rest of the Autobots were still hanging near the door (“Tell your buddies—er, clubmates?—to get over here, it’ll be a lot less embarrassing than watching me run back and forth with their orders.”). The eponymous Swerve, as he introduced himself somewhere between three stories and four slightly related tangents, maneuvered the growing crowd with ease, preparing drinks and making easy acquaintance with each new Autobot who approached. The other patrons, seeing that Swerve had accepted the newcomers, relaxed again, and the tension eased out of the bar as the night finally started up in earnest.

Rodimus got a drink in hand quickly, and then spent a long evening socializing, bouncing between different groups of mechs as efficiently as he could. His main focus was on Autobots, checking in and making sure they were having a good time, but he also introduced himself to a few of the locals. Most of them were various types of mining equipment, but there were also a few vehicles, as well as a few more surprising forms (an aerial beastformer was on his radar briefly, as was a tank who radiated such an aura of hostility that the entire corner of the bar he sat in remained clear). Night started to edge into early morning, and he found himself on the outer ring of the gathering, once more at Optimus’ side.

“This worked out well,” he commented, vocalizer just low enough that he wasn’t sure whether he meant to be heard.

“It seems that the club is at ease with itself again,” Optimus agreed. He looked down at Rodimus, and that same glow from earlier returned to his optics. “You did well.”

Rodimus beamed, though his smile faltered slightly from the rising anxiety of realizing that this was the exact moment he’d been waiting for. The rush to say what he needed to before he lost his nerve caused his vocalizer to short out, and he coughed static a couple times before he managed to reboot it. Optimus’ gaze was on him the whole time, which was absolutely the most mortifying thing he’d experienced in his life.

One more try. Rodimus got his voice under control, straightened his posture, and was about to lay out the idea he’d been laboring over since before Optimus’ departure when the first yell rang out.

“How recently was the last survey taken?” Starscream asked.

“Just following the announcement that Swindle had been fired.”

“Good enough,” he decided. “How loyal do our members appear to the strike itself?” It was a luxury to get to forget about Megatron’s involvement, one that he would not deny himself the indulgence of.

“Of total membership, 63% actively participating in the strike and related activities, 14% allied with mine operators and strikebreakers, 21% claiming neutrality, and 2% categorized as other.”

“Oh, that’s plenty to hold the picket line,” Starscream said, wings twitching upward. “Even if the operators try to increase pressure on the strikers, they don’t have nearly the enforcement power to break through.”

“Those figures do not take into account non-member miners and laborers,” Soundwave said, bringing the jet back to the ground, “for whom there is not reliable means to gauge interest in the strike. Best estimates, according to news reports, mining logs, and general observations of my team, indicate 40 to 55% participation among all active miners, with sharp decline in neutral entities.”

“And an increase in strikebreakers,” Starscream finished, sagging back. “Scrap. I told Megatron we needed to push for that bill requiring union membership, but he just kept going on about how it was the ‘right of the people’ to decide how to conduct themselves. Now, look at them go, using their rights to throw away their big opportunity.” He started to scrub a hand down his face, then stopped when he remembered Soundwave, impassive though he was, was still watching. “Going off of that, do you have a projection for how long the line can last?”

“Not a reliable one; too many outside factors,” Soundwave said.

“Give me unreliable, then,” Starscream snapped, before his optics flickered and he forced himself to reel it back in. Relax the wings, disengage the thrusters, stop digging fingertips in the desk’s finish. He considered moving back into his original office: at the very least, this chair had to go.

“Crisis resources are wearing thin,” Soundwave said while Starscream composed himself. “Sponsors have promised energon resources to supply strikers for another year, but one major supplier has already backed out, followed by several minor ones from the same area. There is a high probability that more will follow, especially those that were recruited by Megatron personally. Strikers are aware, as are they aware that to be a member of the strike when it fails could result in worse conditions than they started with. The majority have been without a source of reliable income since the strike began, and the associated elevated stress levels will have an impact on judgement and ability to think in the long term.”

“What does all that mean for us and our efforts?” Starscream asked. His voice was calm, but he wasn’t able to stop the twitching in his left wing anymore, and the jolts of unbidden movement grated on him just the same as Soundwave’s monotone.

“Our members likely feel that their dedication is being tested. Their allegiance could soon depend on which option seems most likely to result in the faster return of a regular income, regardless of the means required to secure it.”

“So, there’s a chance they choose to go back to collapsing mineshafts and frames riddled with radioactive decay than rough it out a little longer.” Starscream had to look away. He’d caught sight of his own reflection in Soundwave’s visor, and the face staring back at him was not something he wanted to be seeing right now.

“Given current affairs, it might prove difficult to sway them back to our side,” Soundwave admitted. “Every effort must be made, though, to regain their trust and assure them that their efforts have not been misplaced.”

“Obviously they haven’t been,” Starscream snapped again, standing, too startled by the idea to maintain the pitch of his vocalizer; Soundwave flinched. “We’re not the ones dumping too many at once into crowded tunnels, not paying them, and then firing them for not getting the necessary repairs to be useful.” He started to pace behind the desk, trying to dispel the charge working its way down to his thrusters. “That’s all the operators. It’s what they’ve done since they opened those mines, and it’s what they’ll keep doing if everyone decides we’re not worth the effort. And if that’s what they do, then at that point, we should just leave them to it, since they’re obviously too dense to appreciate anything better.”

He flared his wings, fired his thrusters just enough to scorch the floor, and then dropped back into the chair, head down. His vents were releasing enough hot air to melt plating and the cheap energon was working its way uncomfortably through his filtration system. His optics flickered once before steadying.

“Obviously, I don’t actually think that,” he said, voice back at an acceptable pitch. He glanced up.

Soundwave’s appearance was unchanged, demeanor steadfast. No words, no opinion: just the piercing gaze of an expressionless red visor.

Starscream knew that Soundwave harbored opinions on every aspect of the organization’s functioning, which he would freely supply to Megatron when requested. On this, too, he would have thoughts, and all Starscream would have to do was ask for them, to get a whole audiofull of the reasons he was the wrong one to be sitting in this chair. Of copious evidence of the board’s desperation for a replacement, of mechanisms who were better prepared to handle a crisis, of Soundwave’s own superior familiarity with the strike and all its components.

But he wasn’t about to prostrate himself like that. He’d always promised himself that once he got out from under Megatron, thrust his way up to Executive Director, that never again would he offer himself as another mech’s fan belt. Now was the time to hold himself to that promise, even if there was an itch in his processor at not knowing exactly what the mech most directly under him was thinking.

Lucky Soundwave, to never have to worry about that.

Bumblebee was about to get up, excuse himself from the party, and spend the rest of the night driving around the Quintessa outskirts when the first shout carried from across the bar.

He did not know who started the fight or how they got the Autobots involved. At the moment of eruption, he’d been seated on the periphery, working on an overwrought apology to Prowl. These endeavors always had to be choreographed exactly; obvious excuses, faulty logic, and insincere promises were all considered grounds for dismissal, while long pauses and overthinking tended to make his friend fidgety and uncomfortable. There was a fine middle ground that he’d found to walk, and although he considered himself as familiar as one could be with Prowl’s idiosyncrasies, he could still occasionally be surprised.

“Something was bothering you,” Prowl stated, moments before the bar descended into chaos.

“Just change, it takes a lot out of you,” Bumblebee said, smile easy and grateful. “Optimus was smart putting me on watch duty, gave me some time to cool off. If you need a ride back to Iacon, I’m feeling better now and can probably manage to go above the speed limit.”

But Prowl shook his helm.

“I have a few issues I’d like to discuss with Ultra Magnus, and it’s convenient to do it now while we’re in the same area. The offer is appreciated.”

“Next time, then,” Bumblebee said as he made to stand, “I’ll show you I’m still good for something.”

However Prowl could have deigned to answer that promise was lost, first to a single voice and then a cacophony, the tell-tale _clang_ causing Bumblebee to whip around just in time to see someone falling to the ground. Whatever happened next was lost as the entire bar seemed to stand up simultaneously, audial feeds overwhelmed by an ocean of voices, horns, and roaring engines.

He hesitated just a moment before switching to the officers’ comm feed.

::_Ironhide, what’s—_::

::_Ultra Magnus, secure the exit and make sure anyone trying to escape is free to do so. Ratchet, see if you can calm things down from the center, but _do not engage_. Rodimus, keep an eye on the bartender. Ironhide and Prowl, to me._:: Optimus’ voice boomed over the feed, causing Bumblebee to stumble a second time and nearly trip over his own chair.

::_And me, Optimus?_:: he sent over.

::_Placate who you can._::

A simple directive, but one they both knew Bumblebee was more than capable of. Prowl had already disappeared from his side as he started to survey his immediate surroundings, seeking out mechs who might complicate the situation.

There. A local, black and yellow striped plating identifying him as a miner, was just starting to stand from his table, hands transforming into mean-looking drill bits. Without pausing to let himself overthink it, Bumblebee darted over, surprising the mech and causing him to drop back into his seat.

“Hi, I’m Bumblebee,” he chirped, offering a goofy grin he knew to be completely out of place.

The miner was confused at first, and then angered again. He stood, got in Bumblebee’s space, tried to bait him into starting another scuffle there. Bumblebee refused and kept up his cheery demeanor, using his own homebrew of gentle words and general pleasantness to bring the miner back down, while using their back-and-forth shuffling to guide him toward the exit. On reaching it, the miner decided that the frustration of dealing with the little ‘cycle wasn’t worth the effort just to get his paint scratched up, so he brushed past Ultra Magnus with an annoyed huff of exhaust.

There wasn’t time for words, but Bumblebee did see the approving glance Magnus sent his way. For the first time that evening, his spark lightened.

This was the Bumblebee most Autobots were familiar with, and the one he aimed to be as often as possible: equal parts charming and kind, who could be relied on to act as fun partygoer or firm shoulder to lean on. On the road, though he took some pride in his speed, it was comments on evenness that really made him glow, knowing that he could provide a smooth ride across Cybertron’s terrain.

He scanned the crowd, seeking his next target, and his spark lurched when he noticed the heavy warframe sulking in the corner. Ignored by the other officers due to his distance from the center of the fighting, his squared shoulders and blazing red optics nevertheless broadcast his imminent ability to bring a crisis to the next level.

Bumblebee had to scramble to get back the way he’d come. He dodged to one side as Ironhide came barreling back, locked in a tangle with what seemed to be an armored truck while a minicon swung from their grip on his helm. In the gap in the crowd that briefly followed their wake, Bumblebee was able to catch sight of Optimus, working his way through the knot of brawlers with both hands and voice. A stray fist, possibly not even intended for him, cracked against the side of his helm, and that was the last Bumblebee saw before the crowd melded together again.

Feeling concerned, he started to diverge from his path, but a quick streak of black and white indicated that Prowl had also witnessed the blow. Knowing that Optimus would be taken care of, Bumblebee returned to his purpose in time to see the other mech standing and starting toward the scuffle, features molded into a terrible snarl.

With a few skips around tussling mechs and a hop over an overturned table, Bumblebee placed himself in the path of the oncoming tank.

“Hey, buddy,” he said, all light and charm. “I know things are pretty hot right now, but to be honest, I think it’s really in everyone’s best interest if you don’t do that.”

The mech’s treads were active, circulating over their axles, the roar of his engine audible even above the still escalating bar fight. He looked surprised, then confused, staring at Bumblebee like he was an organic. He wasn’t advancing, though.

“Good, now let’s see if—”

His words choked off and he made to dodge as the mech’s arm wound back, basic tactical routines informing him that such a punch would send him flying across the bar. The damage would be repairable, but this was not a situation he wanted to find himself prone in, and it would also leave his target free to join the rest of the brawl, which now seemed all but guaranteed.

At the moment the blow should have arrived, though, the mech hesitated. Bumblebee, sensing the slight shift in tempo, responded automatically, shifting out of the way and behind his would-be attacker. The other mech, startled by the sudden movement, attempted to finish his swing, but by that point Bumblebee had already grabbed his idle hand by the wrist, wrenching it behind his back. The larger mech twisted in pain, and Bumblebee took advantage of the involuntary movement to capture the other hand, pinning them both. It was an imperfect hold, but he was already lining up every way he knew of to secure it.

“I’m serious. For the sake of everyone, it’s going to be best if you just calm down now,” he said. It wasn’t his best line, but even he couldn’t deny that there was some allure in hand-to-hand and that finishing it so quickly would be a shame.

“What would you know of it?” the mech asked. The words were predictable, annoyed and contrary, but the undercurrent of sorrow carrying them was a surprise. Bumblebee relaxed his grip, easing the mech’s shoulders while keeping a slight hold on him. He tried to peek around to see his expression, but there was too much frame in the way, and he wanted to maintain some level of control in the situation.

“Enough to—”

White-hot pain exploded across his back. Bumblebee cried out, falling forward while letting go of the mech’s wrists. He heard the same voice but was too distracted by the feeling of overheated metal blistering and warping to make any sense of the meaning. It was a plasma shot, surface-level, serious but not life-threatening. His systems were scanning the damage too fast for him to get many coherent thoughts through, but he did manage to scramble another hold on the mech in front of him, gripping his plating like that would be enough to anchor him. Through the haze of pain, he glanced back: the owner was stood with one foot on his bar, proud hold on his blaster juxtaposed with the sheepish expression on his face.

His mouth formed the vaguest shape of the words, _“My bad.”_

The other mech had half turned to him, but Bumblebee only registered it when the massive engine roared to life once again.

“Okay, I think that’s our signal to get out of here,” Bumblebee said, vocalizer crackling but coherent. He righted himself and winced as wires that had melted together tore themselves apart, and had to stop himself from reaching out for a steadying grip on the frame in front of him.

“There’s a back door,” the mech said, now turned fully to face Bumblebee, though angled enough that he could keep one optic on the brawl; it seemed to be spreading out. “It’s safer than trying to reach the front now. I’ll make sure your exit won’t be noted.”

He took a step away like that was all that needed to be said, and Bumblebee grabbed for a wrist, grip harsher than he intended but still successful in its intention. The mech stilled again.

“You’re coming with me.” The order tasted terrible on his glossa, but he was able to hide his distaste within his grimace of pain.

“If you move quickly, you’ll get out without any suspicion,” the tank said. “You won’t require my protection any more than that.”

Despite the excitement of the fight happening around them and the pain of his charred back and the general bad mood he’d been in since he’d last onlined, Bumblebee cracked a smile at that.

“Your protection is my priority,” he quipped, just before yanking down on the wrist until the tankformer was crouched low enough that Bumblebee could shield him with his own frame. Using the momentum, he started to guide them toward the door, though his new charge was quick to regain his senses and stop them short.

“This is entirely unnecessary,” he snapped, but Bumblebee just shook his head at him.

“No, what’s unnecessary is throwing yourself in there when my friends have almost got it taken care of. I’m doing them and everyone else in this bar a favor, and if it means you’re the one who gets out without a repair bill, then that’s your lucky break.” Bumblebee pushed to get them moving again and was surprised when the other frame gave.

“Friends?” he asked, to which Bumblebee rolled his optics.

“Yeah, kind of a neat thing to have,” he said.

The fight was still going on as they reached the door. Bumblebee considered comming the other officers to let them know where he was headed, but then a pair of snarling mechs nearly bowled him over in their attempts to pull each other apart. The tank started to stand upright, furious optics locked on the interlopers, so Bumblebee drummed up the last of his reserves and shoved himself and the stranger through the exit.

Behind him, Optimus’ voice rose above the clamor. It was just as Bumblebee had always heard it: proud, commanding, everything a leader needed to be in such a situation. Bumblebee allowed himself one glance back, then kept going.

“We can’t keep making empty promises if we want to maintain the strikers’ loyalty,” Starscream decided. He was standing again and pacing the length of the small office, the desk chair pushed off to one side to keep it out of his way. “From now on, all resources are going towards finding a way to end the strike, without betraying our initial incentives to start it.

“We’re going to have to adjust our demands to the operators. Not only will it make them more agreeable, but it also puts them in a bad place if their buyers find out they have a chance to resume production and don’t take it.”

“Specific sections to revise?” Soundwave requested.

“Bring it down to one medic for every two hundred miners and adjust safety inspections to fit within the framework of existing systems. Have one of yours draft the new demands, send them to me by morning for review, and we’ll be in contact with the operators by midday. Consider, but don’t include, the possibility of lowering our requested standard rate per ton of material by a few shanix: it can be used as a bargaining chip in case the operators start to complain about costs.”

They were fortunate that Megatron had always been so full of himself, aiming far higher than he or the strikers had the means to achieve. By bargaining not just for serviceable working conditions, but optimal ones, he had given the operators an upper limit to what they were willing to consider of the strikers’ demands. Now, Starscream could take advantage of that and work beneath it, weaponizing the operators’ own relief against them.

“Meanwhile, keep in contact with the strike leaders,” he went on. “Make it clear that absolutely no one is to get through the line, strikebreakers or security. If they get an in while we’re still negotiating, the operators will take it as a last-minute opportunity to ignore our demands entirely. We’ll lose everything.” Everyone knew that the essential function of the strikers was to maintain the strike, but with everything coming to a head and new problems breaking through as quickly as they could be patched up, Starscream didn’t see any harm in reminding his second of the obvious.

And yet, this was the instruction that finally made Soundwave hesitate.

“Putting pressure on strikers already experiencing elevated stress levels could result in a decision to use force to combat incoming strikebreakers,” he said.

“So, tell them not to,” Starscream said. There was no need to give security a reason to test their gun mounts.

Soundwave did not immediately respond. Starscream’s vents sighed.

“Make it clear to the leaders that violence on behalf of the strike will not be permitted and will result in suspension of Decepticon membership; use Megatron as an example, if they really don’t buy it.” He barely held back his chuckle at that “If there is a scuffle, and there shouldn’t be, if our allies know what they’re doing, we’ve still got Flatline out with them. He’ll manage it: he used to be a combat medic.”

In truth, he wished that using more force were a little more strategically sound. Being able to back up their demands with more direct threats to the mines and personnel would put a new kind of pressure on the operators, give them a reason to take the Decepticons seriously in a way they hadn’t since the strike began. As the situation stood, though, they didn’t have the resources to match the mine security’s firepower, and the risk of coming out not only beaten, but decimated, was just too high.

Soundwave nodded finally.

“I’ll get in contact with…”

Soundwave’s voice turned faint and disappeared, a sign Starscream recognized as his attention turning inward to something only he could hear. Not in the mood to wait, Starscream started to sneak around him to go get the chair from his old office.

“Incoming transmission from Laserbeak,” Soundwave said, catching his attention while they were still side by side. Starscream paused, taking note of a change in the tone of his second’s voice. “Altercation at the establishment at which Frenzy was meeting with Runabout and Runamuck. A miner and a supplier, halted by a third party.”

“What started it?” Starscream demanded. If it was anything to do with the strike, even tangentially, it could spoil their whole plan. If fighting started before they’d had a chance to amend their demands, the mine operators would have reasonable cause to request backup from the nearest cities, and at that point even those not part of the picket line could be targeted.

“Unclear, potentially a perceived social slight. Laserbeak is investigating,” Soundwave said. “Frenzy identified the designations of the key figures, though several involved in the peripheral fighting escaped before they could be identified.”

“Anyone of significance?” Starscream asked, already imagining the fallout of one of the strike leaders taking out their frustrations on one of the operators’ favorite customers. It was unlikely two such people would end up at the same establishment, but with every other unfortunate mishap associated with the strike thus far, he had to be ready for the worst.

“Neither the miner, Slice, nor the supplier, Bunker, have roles of relative importance in the ongoing conflict. Slice is part of Overlord’s crew and a member of the Decepticons. Bunker incorporates stops at Quintessa as part of a larger delivery circuit around Cybertron, hauling raw materials to manufacturing facilities.”

“Okay,” Starscream said, letting his ventilation system relax. “Good. What about the other one?”

“Orion Pax, alias Optimus Prime. Primary association: President of Autobot Motorcycle Club. Reasons for stopping in Quintessa are currently unknown.”

“A motorcycle?” Starscream asked, distaste making his wings shiver. “It’s unusual for one to be traveling alone, isn’t it?” He’d only seen them out driving a handful of times, but the way they used each other like common machines made his spark prickle with unease.

“Frenzy estimates 25 to 50% of the total bar patrons were motorcycles associated with the same club,” Soundwave said. “Laserbeak believes they were instrumental in both initiating and deescalating the conflict.”

Starscream cocked his helm to one side.

“How is that possible?”

“One as-of-yet unidentified club member attempted to come between the catalysts and was struck; their ‘Enforcer,’ designation Ironhide, then intervened, and a majority of the members followed his lead.”

“So, then Optimus Prime pulled rank and told them all to stand down?” Starscream guessed, the new inputs working into his algorithms and providing some surprising results.

“Correct.”

“And they listened to him,” Starscream mused, placing a hand to his mouth as he lost himself in thought. He glanced back at Soundwave. “Are Laserbeak and Frenzy still there?”

“They were just recalled.”

“Turn them back around,” Starscream instructed, smirk forming. “I’d like them to schedule a meeting for me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! This fic is fully planned, but not pre-written. I thank you in advance for your patience, and will hopefully be back soon!


	2. Burnout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rodimus struts.
> 
> Starscream adds a hot, combustive element to the strike.
> 
> Megatron drags Bumblebee to repairs, so Bumblebee in turn drags Megatron.

“Get off me,” Megatron snarled, tearing himself away from the motorcycle. The excitement of the fight still had his engine working at a fevered pace, charge desperately seeking an outlet, processor calculating his chances against imagined combatants coming from all sides.

His fist crashed forward, outer wall of the bar dented. The plating around his digits buckled and he felt a few delicate struts bend to near breaking, but the shockwaves that traveled up his arm and into his shoulder settled his roaring engine. He prized his hand from the indent, found no serious damage, and exvented a billow of hot air.

The yellow mech was standing off, hands raised like he’d been about to warn Megatron against doing anything rash. His blue optics were wide, and Megatron didn’t bother trying to interpret the expression; it always fell somewhere between fear and repulsion, and this stranger wasn’t worth the effort of convincing against either.

“Feel better?” he asked, tinting his vocalizer with a note of false concern that had Megatron’s system revving all over again. _Fragger_.

“I’m finding another bar,” he said, turning away from the metal-and-oil annoyance. Swerve’s would have been his establishment of choice for a quiet night, but there were still others he could think of that could offer a decent glass of engex and relative anonymity. Visages would probably be host to Starscream’s revelries, but Maccadam’s might be busy enough for him to slip in without attracting attention.

“You’re what?”

He kept his back turned on the mech’s incredulity, having written him off as either inconsequential or a hindrance, but he could not stop himself from turning around at the sound of metal clattering to the ground.

The mech had fallen to his left knee. The other leg, collapsed, stuck out to one side while his hand gripped the impression of Megatron’s fist for stability. It looked like he had tried to rush after Megatron, and the sudden movement had caused some weakened strut to finally give out, sending him to the ground. He was desperately trying to haul himself back up, the limb spasming ineffectually and threatening to bring him down further.

Megatron did not care about this individual: despised him, possibly. But, his traitorous processor took the impression of the moment and linked it to others he’d been forced to bear witness to, miners who had begged their overworked bodies not to break down, to push through the pain, _just to get them back to the surface_. The memory files were old to the point of mild corruption, but that only made them harder to distinguish from the real mech kneeling in front of him, stirring up Megatron’s emotional subroutines with codes he’d thought were conditionally deleted long ago.

Megatron didn’t care. But, at the same time, a Cybertronian needed him.

“What are you experiencing?” he asked as he stepped forward, leaning down so he could inspect the damage. “Where is the pain located?”

“No pain,” the mech huffed. He didn’t turn his head to answer Megatron, but kept his focus shifted down, toward the leg that continued to fight his efforts to regain his composure.

“Don’t give me that slag,” Megatron said, straightening again. “I can see your internals.”

The blast, though not powerful enough to go through a mech, had still melted through the tire perched on his upper back and opened a jagged, uneven hole in his plating. Wicked edges twisted inward and sliced into delicate tubes and wires, and burnt energon had gummed up within the recesses of the wound. The way heat damage had radiated out from the initial point of contact led Megatron to believe that the ruined tire might be to thank for saving the mech’s life.

There was still a chance of there being further, unseen damage, but without an examination, the only way to guess was for the mech to say what he was feeling.

“It hurt at first, but it’s gone now,” he insisted, “just can’t get my leg to cooperate.”

That gave Megatron pause. He’d assumed that the labored ventilations had been a result of oncoming shock, but they did seem to be more in line with the effort the mech was putting into getting himself up on his feet. If he wasn’t feeling the full extent of his injury, it was possible the damage was not a structural one, but systemic, placing it well outside the scope of Megatron’s limited knowledge.

“You need to see a doctor,” he said.

“What? Oh, no, I’m fine. Well, not fine, but I can get Ratchet to patch me up later.” He finally looked up at Megatron, displaying a grin that seemed almost fierce in its sincerity. Megatron’s unease grew.

“There is no reason for you not to go to him now,” he said.

The smile wavered, then dropped.

“I don’t want to leave you alone,” the injured mech said. “You seem lonely.”

Megatron’s engine revved again, and it was all he could do to stop from punching the wall a second time.

“Just say what you mean, won’t you?” he demanded. “Tell me I’m unstable, dangerous, that you don’t trust me to go off on my own without causing further trouble. Admit that you’re scared, if not of me, of what I have the potential to do. You’re so hopeless for a solution that you’re trying to throw your damaged frame between me and everyone else. Just _say_ it.”

He could hear the hot air blasting out of his frame, but there was no relief in it, nor in the bright optic’d stare he was receiving from the mech still kneeled in front of him. Megatron would not bow his head, though the shame that had been weighing on his spark all day now threatened to pull him down fully to the ground.

“I think you’re lonely,” the mech repeated. His voice was different; no longer tinted with the forced cheerfulness, Megatron could hear the weariness in it. The hand leaning into the dent in the wall flexed slightly. “I think loneliness is something everyone goes through sometimes, but that it also affects each mech in different ways. For some, being around a lot of other people improves it, but for others,” a pause, “it makes it worse.”

He tensed, then pushed away from the wall. Megatron felt a compulsion to catch him, but the mech steadied himself, balancing on one knee and one bent leg. From this position, he was able to straighten his backstrut and look straight at Megatron, the sharpness of his optics almost a challenge. Megatron did not know if he was expected to rise to it or shrink away, so he stayed where he was.

“I pulled you out of there because you looked like you could take things to another level, and I didn’t want my friends getting caught up in that,” the mech said. “But the fighting’s over now, and you look just as miserable as you did before it started.”

“I’m right. You’re afraid I’ll go make trouble at the next establishment I curse with my presence.” There was no satisfaction in it. In fact, the confirmation had a depressurizing effect, and this time Megatron did find himself sinking down until he was resting on his knees. He was surprised to find himself at eye level with the mech, who had seemed so much smaller amidst the violence of the bar.

The mech shrugged.

“Yeah. But there’s also a chance that you wander around feeling miserable for the rest of the night, and that doesn’t seem like a better alternative.”

He raised his hand from his bent knee and reached it forward. Megatron could see how much effort it took him to maintain his balance without the extra support, but his optics were still focused, something almost like a smile smoothing over his faceplate.

“My designation is Bumblebee.”

Megatron’s gaze flicked down to the offered appendage, then back up to Bumblebee’s optics.

“I’m not shaking your hand.”

The effect was instantaneous. Bumblebee’s hand withdrew, and the once inviting optics closed off, glaring up at Megatron with a look of betrayal and suspicion. It was not the reaction Megatron had expected, though it was one he recognized: protectiveness over a wound that had been opened and reopened countless times before, a reminder of something that no one else would allow him to forget. Megatron stared at Bumblebee as the mech was turning away, closing himself off, and it was from that angle Megatron was able to get a better look at the remaining tire on his lower back and identify his alt mode.

“Not because you’re a motorcycle,” he said quickly. “I refuse to shake anyone’s hand; such formalities were designed by members of the elite to establish rituals that could be used to identify whether a mech had been properly conditioned to reciprocate such actions. Besides excluding those with alt dependent servos, the actions also heavily favor those of specific height and build types.” He’d rattled off the explanation enough times that even now, in a moment almost comparable to panic, it still came out smooth as a stream of liquid energon.

The skepticism hadn’t left Bumblebee’s gaze, but he hadn’t turned his back on Megatron completely, which was a good sign.

“That seems really specific,” he said, “and not at all practical.”

“Pragmatism is for the content.”

Another unexpected reaction: Bumblebee chuckled. Megatron’s spark stirred, and he found himself fascinated by the motorcycle.

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” Bumblebee said, catching his knee again as his frame’s shudders threatened to unbalance him. His backstrut relaxed into a graceful little slump, and his lame leg had been still for some time, its momentary uselessness forgotten.

“Most don’t,” Megatron conceded.

“I’d like to, though,” Bumblebee clarified. “It sounds interesting, and you’re clearly passionate about it, which I’m sure means you have plenty to say.” His helm tilted lightly to one side. “If you’d be interested, I’d love for you to tell me more about it.”

Megatron’s optics darkened. There had been a brief moment where, though he still couldn’t say he liked Bumblebee, it had seemed they were finally entering a space of real communication. The head tilt, though, was plainly something choreographed to provoke a specific reaction from other mechs, and Megatron’s observation of it coincided with a loss of desire to explain himself any further to Bumblebee.

“I’ve no interest in putting my ideology on display for your amusement,” he said. In truth, he didn’t care what Bumblebee thought of his ideas; he’d faced enough snobbish elites who thought his processor couldn’t handle the theory to have constructed a mental defense against their patronizing. There was no place in his processor, though, for dishonesty. Even at a point in his life when he had more free time than he’d ever known before, he had no interest in wasting any of it prostrating himself for Bumblebee’s subpar acting.

“Wait, wait, no,” Bumblebee said, expression serious again. His leg was starting to twitch, threatening to kick himself further to the ground. “Primus, I’m such a—it’s been a weird day, and I’m sorry for laughing. I really do want you to tell me more.”

The honesty had returned. Despite several programs warning him to the contrary, Megatron found himself further intrigued.

He made a decision.

“Come,” he said, standing to stride forward and hook one hand under Bumblebee’s left arm. He allowed the mech just a moment to understand what was happening before he hauled Bumblebee up, allowing him to balance against Megatron’s side. The malfunctioning leg hung listlessly between them. “You need medical attention.”

“And you need someone to talk to.”

“On a hierarchy of needs, those things—”

“Aren’t that far apart,” Bumblebee insisted. He was gripping Megatron’s side, using the position to straighten himself out. “Come on. I’ll promise to go see someone about this if you let me keep you company for a while.”

“That’s hardly efficient. If I accompany you to a doctor, will that satisfy your unsolicited concern for my emotions?”

“Just so you can drive off as soon as they take me in?”

Megatron couldn’t keep off the wry smirk that formed as an idea came to mind.

“If that’s your worry, I know a mech who will meet all of our requirements.”

Rodimus had to wiggle his way through the crowd standing outside the bar, politely squishing between bodies when possible and shoving out of the way when not. Optimus was standing out at the edge of the gathered Autobots, speaking with two four wheelers who wore matching enforcer insignia on their chasses. Prowl and Ultra Magnus were nearby, their optics darting over to the proceedings from time to time, but the fact that they were holding back meant Optimus felt confident handling the authorities on his own.

Rodimus’ systems depressurized from relief. After finally managing to get Swerve to stop waving his blaster around, he’d found himself burdened with the far more hazardous task of playing peacemaker. The irate bartender had been demanding to know how the Autobots planned to pay for the damages, and even without any authority over the club and its budget, Rodimus had known that wasn’t going to happen. Luckily, Jazz and Wheeljack, two of the most likeable members of the Autobots, had stepped in, and last Rodimus saw were in the process of straightening out frayed wires.

Now, it seemed Optimus was taking a similar approach with the enforcers, his posture relaxed, and tone unburdened. The enforcers were responding in kind, one of them even laughing at something in the conversation. Rodimus was curious about what they were talking about but held himself back, both out of respect for Optimus and a lingering desire to keep himself off enforcers’ radar.

With the rest of the club’s officers accounted for, Rodimus did idly wonder where Bumblebee was, but assumed Optimus was keeping track of his Vice President.

After a few more words, a nod of acknowledgement from both parties, and a final exchange of information, the enforcers transformed and drove off, winding down the streets with a satisfying ease. Rodimus watched them go for a moment before at last approaching Optimus, waiting another moment while he shared a few closing words with Prowl before speaking up.

“Holding up?” he asked, trying to keep his tone somewhere in the space between respectful and familiar.

“I suppose,” Optimus said. His optics were scanning over the assembled Autobots, occasionally focusing on details Rodimus couldn’t pick out, but he didn’t sound distracted. “I do not know how the local law enforcement will respond to the Autobot presence at the nexus of the brawl. The two security operators I was speaking to seemed unconcerned, but I still worry how it will be handled once the report is handed to public safety officials.”

“Security operators,” Rodimus repeated, optic ridges scrunching. “You mean they’re not enforcers?”

“Not in an official capacity, no.” Optimus looked down at Rodimus, though the steady glow of his optics made it difficult to discern what he was feeling. “From what I understand, they’re a private security force, managed by Quintessa’s majority property holders.”

“What? Is that legal?” Not that Rodimus was normally one to care whether actions fell within the scope of the law, but he wasn’t a fan of mechs using power as a means to amass more.

“If the entire city were owned by a single individual, or a small corporation, it is possible,” Optimus said. “Senate-backed enforcers likely have some presence, but I wouldn’t know how much.”

“Seems like all the more reason to get out of here soon.” Some Autobots had already taken their leave, but there was still a sizable crowd hanging back. Some were waiting for Ratchet to clear them for driving, while others had gone off to gather energon for the journeys home. There were also a few remaining who were keen on letting the evening last a little longer; from where he stood, Rodimus could see Cliffjumper leading a small band of minibikes off to find another bar.

“I agree,” Optimus said. “Ratchet is finishing repairs, and Ultra Magnus and Prowl are going over the roster to determine exactly who was involved in the altercation. Once they’ve finished, and our members come back with the energon order, we’ll leave promptly.”

“I could lead an advance ride of everyone’s who’s ready to go now,” Rodimus offered, the idea forming in his processor at nearly the same rate his vocalizer put it into words. “It’s not how the club normally does it, yeah, but if it’ll get everybody away from Quintessa faster. Once we’re out of here, we’ll be able to put this whole night behind us, you know?”

He had to flex his handlebars to keep them upright and confident. This night was supposed to be the opportunity he’d been waiting for to talk to his longtime hero without the distraction of club politics, and driving away meant giving that up. He just had to keep telling himself it was a lost cause. If he stayed, he was going to end up blurting something out at the wrong time, and that would be far more damaging than just waiting until the next ride.

Optimus looked like he was considering the idea, and may have even started to respond. Rodimus’ audial receptors missed it, though, distracted by a sharp _squawk_ that caused both to startle and turn around.

The aerialformer who hovered in the air before them was one of the smallest models Rodimus had ever seen. A pair of thrusters on her undercarriage were all that were needed to keep her aloft, while she occasionally manipulated her flexible wings to maintain her balance, keeping her level with Optimus’ optics. Staring at her, Rodimus thought he might had seen her in the bar earlier, but with so many unfamiliar faces it was a challenge to say for sure.

“Are you seeking assistance?” he asked. Rodimus wondered how many times he’d asked that question already.

“Sure are!”

They startled again. This time, their focus was directed downward, to a bipedal mech whose helm came up no higher than Rodimus’ knee.

“Uh,” Rodimus said eloquently, momentarily forgetting the club hierarchy.

“Frenzy,” the mech said, an answer to a question they hadn’t thought yet to ask. “And that’s Laserbeak.”

“We’re representing the Decepticon Labor Right Coalition,” Laserbeak added.

Optimus nodded. He was still acting as friendly as he would allow himself to while operating as President, but Rodimus noted how his backstrut remained tense, lacking the relaxation that had characterized his conversation with the not-enforcers.

“And what is it that the DLRC would—”

“Decepticons, pal, don’t wear out your vocalizer,” Frenzy said.

Rodimus frowned on his leader’s behalf. With the exception of Ironhide, mechs didn’t speak to Optimus that way. That Frenzy failed to pick up on that told Rodimus everything he needed to know about the mech and his organization, and he copied Optimus’ stance, leaning into the space to make it clear he was the backup.

“Very well,” Optimus said, polite nod dissonant with Frenzy’s tone. “Under either name, the Decepticons are yet unfamiliar to me. What can I do for you?”

Laserbeak squawked.

“For us? Well, didn’t realize you were handing out favors.”

“How fast can you do?” Frenzy asked. “And have you got harnesses besides the jackplugs?”

“Say no; it’ll make his day,” Laserbeak said, squawking again.

Frenzy rounded on her, missing the way both of the ‘cycles recoiled from the innuendo.

“Why, you—”

“There are serious matters at the moment that require my attention,” Optimus said, tone firm. Whereas before, his rigidity could have been marked as a cautious respect towards strangers, now the flare of his optics and tension along his belt indicated it was actively defensive. “If this is the matter of greatest importance you had for me, then I will ask that—"

“No, no, wait, course not,” Frenzy said, turning back to Optimus. There was no regret in the way his hands waved out in front of him, just a mild desperation that was impossible to pin a source to. “Starscream sent us. He wants a meeting.”

“Who’s Starscream?” Rodimus asked, curiosity winning out over his self-control. He had neither respect nor interest for these mechs, but oddities always demanded his attention, and nothing about the pair so far could have been described as usual.

“Acting Excessive Director,” Frenzy answered.

“Executive,” Laserbeak amended. “Temporary promotion.”

“Gotta give it back as soon as Megatron gets the all-clear,” Frenzy explained.

“Whenever that might happen.”

“But for now, he’s the guy our boss is answer to,” Frenzy said, ignoring the aerial, “which means we’ve gotta, too.” Satisfied with an explanation that even Rodimus knew to be subpar, Frenzy half-turned away from them, indicating like he expected Optimus to follow alongside him.

“I’m going to have to decline,” Optimus stated, leaving no room for argument.

Rodimus wasn’t surprised when Frenzy tried anyway.

“You’re part of the ‘we’ now, tires,” he said.

Optimus continued to stare down at the tiny mech. Rodimus shifted his weight to one side, not entirely sure how this was going to play out. So soon after the barfight had ended, he doubted Optimus wanted to stir up even more trouble for the Autobots, but Frenzy didn’t look like there would be much he’d be able to do if Optimus decided to simply step over him.

“Listen, OP, it’s really simple,” Frenzy insisted, putting himself dangerously close to a massive leg. “See, Starscream—”

“The Decepticons want to offer the Autobots a job,” Laserbeak interrupted, drawing Optimus’ attention up again. “We don’t know the details, except that it’s time sensitive, so if it’s something you’d be interested you should really come with us.”

“Ah.” Optimus nodded. “Unfortunately, that is not the function of the Autobot Motorcycle Club. We are a community of two-wheeled vehicles that come together for recreation and as a support system. It would not be within my jurisdiction as President to hire out our members.”

“Does it have to be the whole club, though?” Rodimus jumped in again. An idea had appeared in his processor, and he was curious to see where it led. “Like, if just a few ‘cycles wanted to take the opportunity, would that be fine?”

“You’d have to ask Screamer,” Frenzy said, “we’re just the messengers.”

Rodimus turned to Optimus, who readily met his gaze.

“I can go,” he said. “Just to find out what it’s about, get some more details. This could be a really great opportunity, don’t you think, Optimus? A chance for everyone to do something productive after what happened last night.”

Optimus tilted his head, glancing around the crowd. Rodimus followed his gaze and saw how a few Autobots were watching the exchange. The attention bolstered his engine, giving him the courage to keep going.

“You said yourself that we’re not ready to leave yet. Why don’t I make myself useful in the waiting time?”

There was a beat, and then Optimus nodded, slowly. Rodimus felt his spark nearly sing with joy.

“Very well.” He turned to address Laserbeak again, apparently having decided that she was the more efficient one to communicate with. “Rodimus will be going in my stead. He’s not an officer of the club, so he’s not able to speak on our behalf, but I do trust him to get an accurate read on the situation. In spite of recent circumstances, he has shown himself to be a responsible and competent individual.”

The thrill of learning Optimus trusted him was crushed by the freezing wave of realization that the President had made the tenuous connection between the night’s unfortunate sequence of events and Rodimus’ own participation. Suddenly realizing the stakes were much higher than he’d originally envisioned, Rodimus nodded once, sharply, hoping his serious expression wasn’t sliding too far along the scale into grim.

“Really don’t care who goes,” Frenzy said. “Screamer might have a problem with it, but that’s your issue to deal with when you get there. As long as I’ve got a motorcycle with me, we can head out.”

“Yeah, let’s get going,” Rodimus agreed. He didn’t want to still be in this meeting when the teams came back with energon, lest there somehow be an odd number of bots left and he lost his chance to pick a riding partner.

“Comm me with the details,” Optimus said.

“Of course!” Rodimus glanced back as he retreated alongside Frenzy, just to see Ultra Magnus slide into the spot he had previously been occupying, Optimus’ attention already drawn to some other issue. That was fine. The Autobot President was a busy guy, and if Rodimus could relieve some of that by taking care of this meeting, he would consider this whole trip a net success.

They weren’t even a few steps away when Frenzy spoke up again.

“So, for real, you come with a seatbelt?”

Megatron didn’t mean to stare, but there wasn’t much else for him to do as Bumblebee hung up on his comm line.

“Yeah, just like I figured,” he said with the smile that was starting to grate on Megatron’s spark. “Optimus said things are going fine.”

“Did you tell him where you are?” Megatron asked.

“I pinged him the coordinates.” Bumblebee shrugged. It didn’t make a difference to Megatron what he was willing to tell his supposed friends about, so with a nudge he had them take the last few steps to the door of the shop.

The agreement they’d come to was that Bumblebee would accept medical treatment if he was allowed to keep an optic on Megatron. At this point, Megatron couldn’t remember why these were the stakes they’d settled on, or even if either of them was getting anything out of the deal. He was starting to get the sense that Bumblebee might have a stubborn streak ornery enough to rival Megatron’s own.

The automatic doors slid open, giving access to a lobby that could have been considered opulent even by a proper city’s standards. The gleaming surfaces had been acid washed to produce delicate patterns of rippling blue and green tones, and the light fixtures seemed to be made of a crystal similar to energon, but without the static miasma that usually wafted around its unprocessed state. Megatron might have considered it tasteful, had the walls not been dedicated to displaying the shop owner’s portfolio, the contents of which were mostly image captures of himself. As a result, Knock Out’s smirk was aiming at them from dozens of angles, each one meant to highlight a different service offered at the body shop but all showing little more to Megatron than the mech’s arrogance.

“Good evening, how can we—oh!”

A slender, light green racing frame had stepped through a door in the far back wall, oversized datapad resting on one hip and optics widening as she took in the newest clients. Megatron recognized her as Moonracer, Knock Out’s assistant. It only took her a moment to recompose herself; Megatron assumed the hesitation came as a result of being suddenly met with a local celebrity, and his permanently resting scowl deepened.

“He needs repairs,” he said, gesturing to the motorcycle still partially wrapped around his waist.

“No appointment?” Moonracer asked, tapping at something on the datapad at the same time.

“Knock Out owes me a favor.” More than one, but this could be a start.

“I don’t know anything about any of that,” she said. “If you don’t mind waiting in the workroom, I can bring him down, and you can discuss the details with him then.”

Megatron grunted his acquiescence and Moonracer led them through the door she’d come from, into a repair bay less lavishly decorated than the front had been. The surfaces still gleamed with recent polish, but spare parts and medical tools were stacked wherever there was surface space. An entire wall was dedicated to a range of paint cannisters, and one berth had been converted into another table, piled high with hoods, fenders, and different sizes of axles. Megatron could forgive the clutter, though, because the pictures displayed in here were mainly medical diagrams, only one or two featuring the detailer himself.

“One moment, please,” the mech said before she slipped through another door in the far wall.

Megatron guided Bumblebee to the one free space in the whole room, a berth that, by some miracle, remained clear. He helped leverage the mech onto it, standing back when it was requested, then moving forward again when it became clear Bumblebee wasn’t going to make it on his own. The leg had taken to spasming from time to time, and Megatron couldn’t tell whether the throes were from further wiring degradation or Bumblebee’s own efforts to reanimate it. Either way, it hampered Bumblebee’s ability to move independently, so in the end it was a joint effort to get him up and seated on the berth.

“Exhaustion doesn’t seem to have set in yet, which is good,” Megatron said as he retreated. “At this point, it seems unlikely you’ll be dealing with much internal energon loss. Repairs should be relatively straightforward.”

“You sound really sure about all that,” Bumblebee noted, focus still on the way his leg flinched and kicked, drawing small circles in the air beside the berth. “Why couldn’t you have done the repairs yourself?”

“I’m not a professional mechanic,” Megatron said, “merely picked up the essentials during the time I worked in the mines. Was given the chance to watch a few minor surgeries, but don’t have practical experience.”

Bumblebee nodded, placing a hand on his knee that mostly stilled the twitching.

“Is that how you met Knock Out?”

“No, he and his have called on the Decepticons for aid in the past,” Megatron corrected. “This is his opportunity to start paying off that debt.”

“The Decepticons?”

The question confirmed something Megatron had been starting to suspect, but still didn’t know exactly how to react to. With his role of authority in Quintessa, it had become progressively more difficult over time to run into mechs who hadn’t heard of him before or had some connection to the Decepticons. After all this time, he’d forgotten what it was like to be the first to introduce himself to someone.

“The name of my organization,” he said.

“Oh.” Bumblebee tilted his head, about to ask something further, when his optics sparked with realization. “Scrap, I just realized, I never asked your—"

“Megatron!” The call, nearly a song, swung in through the door the assistant had disappeared through. Knock Out strode through, immediately reaching forward to shake hands with his new clients. When Megatron merely glared at the offending servo, he didn’t seem bothered, pulling back so he could stand at attention before them. “It’s been some time, hasn’t it? Always a pleasure to have you by.” He said pleasure the way one might refer to a recently fired colleague. He nodded to Bumblebee. “This is the patient?”

“Bumblebee,” he introduced himself.

“Mm-hm.” Knock Out walked around the berth to get a look at the wound, Bumblebee twisting his neck around to follow his movements. Megatron watched both. “Blaster bolt?”

“Yeah.”

“Limited function in the right leg,” Megatron added.

“That’s all?” Knock Out leaned close to the injury; Bumblebee flinched. “What about the sensornet?”

“It’s working,” Bumblebee said. “I can feel it fine, just can’t control it.”

Knock Out’s hand shot out and knocked the yellow plating, causing the leg to jump and flail. Bumblebee tried to turn a glare on him, but the doctor was already on the move again, moving around his patient. He made a few more observations before stepping back for a long moment, a look of concentration planted on his faceplate. When he finally turned to Megatron, his expression was unreadable.

“How big a favor are you calling in?” he asked.

Megatron already had the incident queued up.

“Prior to our collective bargaining efforts when the last housing block in Quintessa was bought up: Breakdown was caught smuggling materials out of the mine,” Megatron said. “Security was called, and the Decepticons—"

“Sure, yes, I’ll do it,” Knock out said, glare halting Megatron as effectively as his tone. “And then it’s finally scrapped from all of our records.”

Megatron smirked.

“The Decepticons have always made a point to avoid being on the wrong side of the law,” he said. “I would expect more appreciation for one of the few times we were willing to break that streak.”

“Mm-hm.” Knock Out wasn’t looking at him anymore, instead reaching out to have Bumblebee lie on his front, then turning on a lamp to fully illuminate the damaged frame.

Only once he was content with the positioning of his workspace and had retrieved an exploratory tool from a nearby cart did he speak again.

“Though, I take it you’re not here in an official capacity, are you? Taking debts owed to the Decepticons for personal matters, is that the new standard of our little city’s local heroes?”

Megatron felt the words lance through his spark, and in an instant the world tinted as red as his optics.

“It was under _my_ authority that the Decepticons offered aid to your precious conjunx,” he snarled, advancing on the detailer.

“Hey!” Bumblebee spat, preemptively interrupting his charge. Megatron turned to the burning blue optics, though he could still feel Knock Out’s bored expression following him.

“You knock that off,” Bumblebee said, pointing with the hand not supporting his helm. “And you,” he turned it on Knock Out, “don’t antagonize him. Do you have any idea how much time I’ve spent this evening just keeping him from beating down a bunch of drunks? I can’t start holding him back from a doctor, too.”

Knock Out regarded the motorcycle for a moment longer than necessary, giving Megatron’s systems a chance to cool and leaving them with an uncomfortable hollowness. There was something in his gaze that made Megatron’s spark further squirm, though he couldn’t identify what it was.

“Wherever did you find such a specimen, Megatron?” Knock Out asked.

“Hey! What did I just say?”

Knock Out raised his hands in a gesture that was probably supposed to be similar to the one Bumblebee was so fond of.

“Very well, I see that it’s none of my business,” he said, without a trace of sincerity to be found.

When his hands dropped, a change came over his demeanor. His back straightened, his gaze sharpened, and even without looking one of his hands was reaching back to the tool cart. He got to work without further comment, conversation replaced by the sound of active medical implements.

Megatron’s vents huffed, then he went to retrieve a chair from one side of the room, bringing it back so Bumblebee would be able to keep him in view. They made brief optic contact, and Megatron was witness to something unexpected: a small, grateful smile, lasting only long enough for Megatron to register it before Bumblebee glanced away again, optics going unfocused as he settled in for the procedure.

Starscream stood in front of the closed door to his office, wings erect behind him. Soundwave to the side of him, posture similar, though he had a hand to one audial to indicate he was engaged in long-distance communication. When the hand dropped, he nodded to Starscream.

“Laserbeak, Frenzy, and the Autobot have entered the lift.”

“Late,” Starscream said, enjoying the thrill of hypocrisy. “On top of picking up the wrong motorcycle.”

“It was a strategic maneuver,” Soundwave said. “If Optimus Prime had been insisted on, it is likely they would have been refused outright. Given the circumstances, this is our best outcome.”

Starscream shook his head, disregarding Soundwave’s obviously logical view.

“Remind me what your files have about the new one?”

“Rodimus of Nyon, recent affiliate of the Autobot Motorcycle Club. History of minor traffic violations and one count of attempted robbery.”

Starscream cocked an optic ridge.

“That’s all there is?”

“All that can be gathered in a compressed timeframe.”

Starscream shook his helm, sighing through his vents. He’d done all he could to prepare for this meeting; if Rodimus did or said anything that caught them off-guard, it was on Soundwave and his staff for not finding anything relevant.

He was saved from asking for a fifth time what they knew about Rodimus by a ping from the security system, alerting them that the elevator had arrived. Starscream straightened his back strut further, flashed his optics up to their second-brightest setting, and put on a smile sleek as oil to greet their guest.

Then, the elevator doors were opening, and there he stood.

The first thing Starscream saw were the optics: blue, like the warm ores that rooted into the deepest layers of Cybertron, like far-flung stars seen through the haze of the atmosphere just after an electron storm. They were framed by a gray faceplate, but from there Rodimus’ frame exploded into color, red and gold erupting from the center outward, filling the space in a way Starscream hadn’t realized a grounder could be capable of. Heavy plating conformed to the shape of his engine, and in the form Starscream could see pure power, a promise of yet unknown potential.

Two handlebars extended from his back, currently raised in a posture that would have indicated amusement in a jet’s wings. A glittering smile appeared on his faceplate, and Starscream’s attention was drawn back to the optics just as they crinkled up, somehow warmer even than the flame-like paint job.

“This is it?” Rodimus asked. He broke the optic contact and Starscream found himself frozen while the newcomer inspected the spaces around him.

“Yeah, what were you expecting?” Frenzy’s voice asked, leaving Starscream with the crashing realization that there were several other mechs in the room with them. “We’re a nonprofit, remember? It’s a piece of luck we’re not working out of Soundwave’s basement or something. No offense, boss.”

“Acceptable, Frenzy.”

“Yeah, okay, fair enough.” Rodimus turned to Starscream again, far sooner than the latter was prepared for. “You Screamer?”

Starscream’s wing twitched.

Whereas before, everything had been moving too quickly for him to keep up, new observations crowding out old ones faster than his processor was able to record them all, now it slowed, details piecing together for him like a protomatter engine block forming. He saw the casual sincerity of Rodimus’ grin, the way Frenzy and Laserbeak turned to each other to snicker. Beneath him, his thrusters were threatening to come online, and he had to send a command to halt the process and keeping him from flying into the nearest wall.

With that done, he dropped back into the present.

“That’s Starscream of Vos,” he snapped, cutting through all other noise with the voice he’d learned how to weaponize, “Executive Director of the Decepticons and standing Director of Advocacy. You’re Rodimus of Nyon?”

“Yeah,” Rodimus replied, and Starscream was proud of how the response had unbalanced him. The charming smile was gone, and he shifted his weight like he’d become aware of how the space had been designed to fit much larger mechs than him. His optics were still distractingly bright, glowing with something Starscream lacked the lexicon patches to describe, but it was possible that was the default setting. Nothing to be done about it.

“As I’m sure Laserbeak told you,” he ignored the offended noise from Frenzy, “we have a job we’d like to offer to your Autobots.” He gestured back to the automatic door that opened behind him. “My office. And hurry up, we’re short on time.”

“Oh, yeah, I get that,” Rodimus said as he followed Starscream in, curious optics up again to observe the new space. “I’m trying to be more organized, but it’s tough.” Starscream had moved a few more of his things in, just to give the space a sense of usefulness. He was sure he saw Rodimus’ gaze lingering on the details: a medal he’d been awarded for public service in his previous government job, an image capture of himself shaking hands with a senator. There was still more to do, but this was a start. “When you’ve got too much going on in your processor, it all gets jumbled together, and my priority programs glitch.”

“I got an autonomic reminder chip to help,” Starscream said; he almost internally cursed himself for the admission, then stopped when he remembered Soundwave had followed them into the room. He blamed his slip of private information on relief at Rodimus not pointing out anything in the office.

“That’s something Kup keeps telling me I should look into, but I don’t really have the shanix right now,” Rodimus said.

Starscream snorted; apparently, Rodimus thought his slip-up made this sharing time. If it meant that he had the motorcycle’s trust already, though, he wasn’t going to waste the opportunity. Regardless, the soundproof doors slid closed behind them, blocking casual eavesdroppers from listening in.

“Then I’m sure you’re considering the reason I called you here,” he said, sliding into the desk chair designed to accommodate wings. “I take it your Autobots are interested?”

“Yeah, definitely, but I do need to point out they’re not _my_ Autobots,” Rodimus said, taking the chair on the opposite side. “That’s the one thing Optimus was pretty clear about.”

Starscream nodded. It was insight into the command structure of the Autobots. Had a similar question been posed to any rank-and-file Decepticon, he had no doubt that any of them would have happily claimed the mistaken ownership, himself included. That Rodimus deferred to his absent leader confirmed Starscream’s earlier interpretation of the club and reassured him that they were the right mechs for the task.

“My mistake,” he said, layering thick sincerity into his voice. “Regardless, I assume you’ve heard about the Quintessa mining strike.”

Rodimus shook his head, to which Starscream nodded. He’d expected as much. He raised a hand and waved Soundwave in from where he’d been standing at the door.

The other mech stepped up beside the desk. His chest compartment lit up, a projection landing on the opposite wall and revealing an image of the mineshafts just outside the city. Industrial machinery surrounded the small entrance, operated by mechs of diverse frametypes: majority industrial equipment, but also cars, planes, and a single, mindful boat.

“Quintessa was placed at the intersection of roads leading to three different mines,” Starscream said, the words coming easily to him once more. “Once, these mines were run by different companies, but gradually the Quintessa operators purchased all of them, along with the city itself. Although technically still within Kaon’s jurisdiction as an outlying settlement, the mine operators are really the ones who run the day-to-day functions of the area.”

The image faded, replaced by a shot of Megatron in the lobby, standing in front of the Decepticon insignia, an identical one displayed on his chest. Starscream hated having to use his face as representation of the organization, but with everything else that needed to happen tonight, there wasn’t time to find a better one.

“Obviously, that is a lot of mechs to be under the control of such a select few. The Decepticons were founded as a means to give power to the workers’ voices. We’ve worked on increasing wages, improving housing conditions, and offering legal support whenever it was needed. As you can see around you, though, there’s still plenty left to do.”

The image changed again: this time, it was of the picket line down at one of the other mines, snarling faces of mechs blocking the main elevator against an unseen interloper. Starscream had actually taken this image himself, had worked with the strikers to crowd as many into the frame as possible and then yelled at them to look furious.

“The strike started with the main intention of improving safety regulations. As it currently stands, miners are at constant risk of harsh radiation damage, and the operators refuse to subsidize their repairs, even though degeneration eventually leads to decline in production. Due to some unique strategizing on the part of my predecessor, the demands have expanded to include better pay and benefits as well.”

Being on the advocacy side of the organization, Starscream hadn’t even heard about that decision before it had already been handed to the operators. His rage that day had been the closest it had ever come to matching Megatron’s own.

“That was several years ago. The strike has been going strong since then and production has been completely halted out of two of the mines, but time is running out. I can’t give you the specifics but trust me when I say, it’s time that we make the operators kneel.”

The truth, that they were running out of resources to power the strikers, was not something that could reach the operators. If they found out, they would have no reason not to power down and wait it out a little longer. It was only through the illusion of longevity that the strike had any chance of succeeding, although it would take more than that to ensure their demands were met.

“We need a show of power to prove to the operators that we are still a threat to their business and will remain so until they agree to back off. That’s what I’ve called you here for.”

Rodimus, silent up until now, looked conflicted, and Starscream felt his spark give an anxious pulse.

“Are you saying you want these operators roughed up? Because that’s not what the Autobots—”

“No!”

The picture jostled as both Soundwave and Starscream jumped to intercept the idea. Starscream glanced over in surprise, but Soundwave didn’t seem to notice, barreling ahead.

“Absolutely no violence will be tolerated on behalf of the Decepticons,” he said. “It undermines the organization’s moral superiority and discredits the beneficiaries that are currently working to sustain our efforts.”

“Plus, the operators have fully upgraded security forces on their side,” Starscream pointed out, eager to avoid being upstaged. “I’ve heard about your—the group’s proficiency amid the altercation that took place earlier, but I don’t believe you have the hardware to handle an assault from those sentient blasters.”

“Oh, okay. Cool.” Rodimus relaxed back in his chair.

Starscream’s internals warmed a degree. He hid his scowl at the sentimentality by swinging back to the projection.

“We need to improve our appearance, let everyone know that the strike is still going strong and will continue to until our demands are met. We have staff working behind the scenes to make sure this is the reality of the situation, but just as effective could be providing the illusion of strength to flaunt in front of the operators. _That_ is where we intend for you to be involved.

“Your task would be to take places along the picket line to bolster its numbers. Obviously, none of you will be mistaken for miners, but that’s fine. If the operators think we have an outside group’s support, that’s putting pressure on them that simple numbers alone can’t achieve.”

“So, if I’m getting this right,” Rodimus said, and Starscream seriously doubted he was, “you’re paying us for our beliefs?”

Starscream didn’t bother to hide his scowl that time; he didn’t like being summarized so plainly, and as a rule had to find _something_ to correct.

“Just for your actions,” Starscream said. “The Autobots are welcome to have any opinion they like on the matter; it just can’t get in the way of the job.”

He wondered if this was a bad idea.

Rodimus grinned.

“Well, like I said, I’m not allowed to speak for anyone, but it sounds great to me. How much are you paying?”

Validation from this mech shouldn’t have meant anything. He was a nobody, nothing, a bystander who rolled into town with nothing but a criminal record to identify him by. Yet, when Starscream found himself the focus of those blue, smiling optics once again, he couldn’t help but think maybe things were going to be okay.

If all this meant the Decepticons were finally making progress in their efforts, what harm could it do to indulge the feeling a bit?

“Ah, I see now. Not actually such a little anomaly, are you?”

Knock Out’s comment roused both Megatron and Bumblebee from the lull they’d fallen into while he worked. Earlier on, Bumblebee had occasionally made a remark that Megatron would either minimally acknowledge or ignore, but as time had worn on they’d settled into a silence textured by the sounds of Knock Out’s tools.

“What do you mean?” Bumblebee asked. He’d been holding his gaze forward the whole time, but Megatron didn’t have the sensation of being watched, and he wasn’t sure how much visual feedback was even making it to Bumblebee’s processor.

“A torn cable disconnected most of your major pain receptors in the affected area,” Knock Out said. “It’s going to be a simple procedure to solder it back together, but I am required by law to let you know it will be uncomfortable.” The law hadn’t stopped the detailer from operating his side business as the most discreet surgeon in the city.

Bumblebee’s optics flickered; Megatron wouldn’t have noticed if there’d been anything else to look at.

“What does that mean?” Bumblebee asked.

“Your sensornet has suffered a traumatic disconnection and parts of it have shut off to maintain integrity,” Knock Out said. “When they come back online, they’re going to recalibrate. The process is brief, but intense.”

Bumblebee’s faceplate showed no reaction.

“How intense?”

“Your tactile sensors will need to go through every setting on your pain sensitivity to find the correct threshold, followed by the lingering discomfort of the injury while I upload a pain patch.”

Megatron turned sharply to Knock Out.

“Can’t you upload the patch first?” he asked.

“It would interrupt the calibration process.” The doctor’s tone left no room for argument. Neither of them tried.

Bumblebee settled back in to allow Knock Out to continue the procedure, but anyone with a half-functioning processor could see that the mech was terrified. Arms were ridges and optics locked straight ahead, flinching each time Knock Out picked up a new tool. Megatron looked away, but he couldn’t ignore the way Bumblebee’s fans hummed to life, survival protocols activating as his processor tried to determine whether he was under attack.

“I’m about to connect the final wire,” Knock Out announced sooner than they were expecting. His focus was on his work, not the mech he was repairing, so his only response to Bumblebee’s full-frame shudder was a mild, “Hold still.”

One arm had to stay under Bumblebee’s chin to support his head, but the other grabbed for the edge of the berth, holding on like he was in danger of falling off into some unknown abyss. The angle was awkward, though, unsupportive, and Megatron could later claim it was its futility of it that caused him to offer his hand. He’d seen other mechs, trapped below the surface of the planet, desperately clinging onto whatever could help keep them upright. In moments like that, sometimes the only thing one could offer was something to reach to.

Without waiting to process it, Bumblebee grabbed for his hand.

He clutched Megatron, fingers wrapping into his palm, and for a moment Megatron was made to see himself not as another miner, lost somewhere within the ever-shifting walls of Cybertron’s deepest layers, but as the walls themselves. He was the foundation holding Bumblebee steady, and though he could do no more than offer support while Bumblebee prepared for the terrible climb to the surface, for once, that was enough.

“Don’t jostle him,” Knock Out warned, and then the hand around Megatron’s _clenched_, and the final connection was made.

Megatron’s vents hitched, in awe of the strength of Bumblebee’s grip. He’s already known Bumblebee to be physically capable, their escape form Swerve’s not one he had engaged in willingly, but there was a difference between the finesse of combat and the raw power he betrayed now. His optics were glowing with such intensity Megatron feared he might risk a burst fuel line, and his fans were so loud as to nearly screech, though the air pouring out of his frame was cold.

“You’re doing a fine job,” Megatron heard himself saying. “It’s nearly over.”

He didn’t know if Bumblebee heard him. His optics, locked forward, didn’t seem to be registering any inputs, and parts of his frame had started to shiver with the force of his struts locking up. A troubling thought came to Megatron, that Bumblebee might have lost all awareness of the world; that, awash in the extreme sensation overcoming his frame, he might have sunk into them, until everything beyond was like a light flickering on the horizon, barely noticeable compared to the inferno blazing around him.

Helplessness was not a feeling Megatron had been used to before that day, and yet he found himself floundering in it once again. Unable to think of anything else, he wrapped his other hand around the place they held each other. Though it was hard to tell amid the crushing pressure, he thought he felt Bumblebee’s digits twitch.

It took several more barely perceptible movements for Megatron to be certain of what he was feeling. Bumblebee’s optics lost their ultra-saturated glow, and when the whine of fans turned to a healthier purr, they flickered before dragging up to meet Megatron’s.

“Calibration is complete,” Knock Out announced. “Uploading the pain patch now.”

“You liar,” Bumblebee said; though it was faint and buried beneath static, Megatron could pick out an encouraging humorous tilt to his voice. “You said he was almost finished.”

“I didn’t think you could hear me over the bluster you were making,” Megatron countered, pulling his hands away. Bumblebee let them go, restabilizing himself on the berth. “I’ve spent over half my function working with jets, and I can say without a doubt you gave all their turbines a run for their shanix.”

“Hmm,” Bumblebee hummed, optics shuttering further. It was obvious he was still uncomfortable, the way he flinched every time Knock Out touched something in his internals, but the relief of the calibration sequence ending seemed to be enough to relax him. “What business did planes have around a mining town?”

“More than you might expect,” Megatron said. He assumed Bumblebee was looking for a distraction, something he would be willing to briefly indulge. “Quintessa has been growing steadily from its original foundation as a mining town. Though the mine operators occupy the positions of power, there are still plenty of roles available for mechs who don’t want to pursue alt-specific occupations, myself included.”

“Oh yeah,” Bumblebee sighed, “was wondering what a tank might do here to afford to drink alone.”

Megatron got the sense that he was being mocked again, but with Bumblebee looking like he only had half his CPU active, he decided to ignore it.

“I run a labor rights organization,” he said. “We’ve been fighting on behalf of workers for as long as the mines have been active. The organization—”

“Yeah, the Decepticons, right,” Bumblebee interrupted, surprising Megatron with his ability to remember such a detail in his current state. “But what do _you_ do?”

“Me? I oversee… oversaw operations. Managed personnel.” Administrative nonsense, he didn’t say out loud.

Bumblebee nodded but didn’t offer any response out loud. His optics gradually dimmed until his head slumped forward, the gentle purr of his engine that of a mech dropped into a light recharge.

“Pain patch has been fully integrated,” Knock Out announced. “Thinking maybe I shouldn’t have bothered, though, if he was just going to pass out on his own.”

Megatron nodded without hearing; his focus was still on Bumblebee’s resting faceplates, listening as his fans steadied to near silence. Though he struggled to identify what it was, there was a marked difference between this version of him and the one that put on a show of charm and companionship. Both seemed content, at ease with their surroundings, but there was a certain quality to this version of Bumblebee that made it impossible for Megatron to look away.

He noticed that the sound of medical tools had not started up again. When he looked up, he found Knock Out watching him.

“Well?” he snapped. “You’re nearly done, aren’t you?”

“Yes, of course,” Knock Out said. His optics lingered on Megatron a moment longer, but then he bent over his patient again and got back to work.

Megatron did not look back to Bumblebee but sat back in his chair, trying to find the word dangling just out of reach.

Starscream watched as Rodimus left through the lobby, Frenzy once more chattering at his side. The conclusion of the meeting had gone well: they’d covered all of the Autobots’ logistical concerns, and Rodimus had promised to take all of the information back to the club to receive their input. Though normally the kind of work Starscream found to be tedious drudgery, the time had passed surprisingly quickly, and the sky outside was starting to soften with the oncoming light of dawn.

“We’ll hear back,” he said after the elevator doors closed behind Rodimus.

Soundwave made a low harmonic hum in acknowledgement.

“Tell Hook to draft the contracts and let the strike leaders know new elements will be added to the picket line soon,” he went on. “I want the Autobots in the strike as soon as possible; if we can get them in today, make it happen. Rodimus seems like a very promising ally, but he’s a little too trusting and liable to being misled by anyone who sees less than the entire picture. When he reaches out, direct him to me immediately.”

“Use caution when involving yourself with the Autobot,” Soundwave said apropos of nothing.

Starscream stopped and turned to look at his colleague. Soundwave remained stationary, resolute. He thought he saw a flicker in the red visor, but it could have been the office light bouncing on the glass.

“Wouldn’t that have been more useful to say before we wasted a night meeting with him?” Starscream asked, going with petulant to avoid asking the real question that came to mind: _What had Soundwave’s team found?_

Soundwave’s composure broke. He shook his head, and when he stilled again, his visor was pointed at Starscream.

“Professionally, he and his affiliates will provide a strategic advantage to the Decepticon cause,” he assured. “That was not the form of involvement being implied.”

Starscream froze, pistons in his wings lengthening to make them flare out and almost fill the space between him and Soundwave. He couldn’t decide which revelation was more horrifying: that Soundwave had parsed the attraction for Rodimus he’d been working so hard not to name, or that Soundwave had considered them relevant enough to the situation to comment on. Soundwave’s focus, after all, was always on the defense of the cause. He didn’t care about the personal lives of his coworkers.

If he mentioned it, then it was because he expected Starscream to do something stupid, something that put the efforts of the strikers at risk.

“Luckily, as your boss, that will be my mistake alone to make,” Starscream bit out and oh, that was the wrong thing to say. That was a mistake.

Too late to take them back, though, so he motioned to the open door. His left wing was twitching.

“Leave now.”

Soundwave did not look at him long enough for it to count as a stare, but Starscream still felt the way his normally sharp movements hesitated before he nodded and left the Executive Director’s office. Starscream looked away, going by the sound of the door shutting to know when he was alone again.

Megatron came to without realizing he’d drifted off. The sound of a soldering iron going had folded into the quiet, repetitive calculations of a processor in recharge, while the chaos of the room he woke to was just symbolic enough to suggest he might still be in defrag. Once the appropriate memory files were loaded his attention immediately turned to the berth in front of him. Knock Out was gone, but his patient remained, optics dark.

Megatron stood to inspect the state of the repairs and immediately got a sense of where Knock Out had retreated to.

Bumblebee’s trashed back plating was gone. The crosshatch of wires and filaments normally protected beneath it was exposed, the gleam of new parts and fresh welds apparent even without the glare of the surgery lamp. Megatron leaned closer and could almost trace the directions Knock Out’s tools had gone in, every movement precise so as not to disturb the healthy machinery. Though he only knew the basics of medicine, his rough training had given him an appreciation for the craft and especially the work of professionals. His engine hummed with relief and he sank back to his chair.

More time passed before Bumblebee’s optics flickered, then came on. He raised his head, processor going through the same boot-up sequence Megatron’s had, and frowned.

“Scrap,” he muttered. “I wasn’t supposed to recharge.” He raised a hand to his audial while trying to leverage himself up with the other.

Megatron placed a firm hand on his shoulder to keep him down on the berth, though he waited until the comm was done to speak.

“You can’t move yet,” he said. “Knock Out’s conjunx is fabricating the replacement for your plating.”

Bumblebee relented, but his optics danced up to Megatron like he was just remembering the founder of the Decepticons was there.

“I wasn’t watching you,” he said, a delicate slur in his vocalizer like it was only partway out of recharge. “You could have left.”

It wasn’t an accusation, just a statement of truth, which was likely the reason it stung Megatron in a way he hadn’t suspected the motorcycle could be capable of. He pulled his hand back, though found that he didn’t then know where to put it, eventually settling for his lap.

Bumblebee watched the hand’s trajectory before his attention moved back up again.

“You and Knock Out both implied you’re not running the Decepticons anymore.”

The observation sent a shock to Megatron’s systems and he glared down at the nearly reparied mech.

“Knock Out speaks out of turn because he knows he will have a place in this city regardless,” he said. “It would do you well to remember that you have no such standing.”

Bumblebee was nonreactive, not even his defensive camaraderie attempting to smooth over the situation. Megatron’s fuel pump was already shuddering when he made the terrible realization that it wouldn’t matter: in the time they had both been out, something in their dynamic had shifted, and he could no longer lean on anger to provoke a response out of the motorcycle. The frustration of futility caused his engine to rev, once, driven by threat, before it gave out and he slumped back in his seat. He did not look away from Bumblebee.

“You’re quite perceptive.”

“That’s my job, paying attention to mechs,” Bumblebee supplied, “like noticing when someone tries to change the subject.”

Megatron glanced to the doors. Both were sealed, and would likely make some noise before anyone coming in could hear the conversation.

“The board of directors,” he said, “the overseeing body of the Decepticons, voted unanimously that I take an extended leave of absence. They cited my conduct as being unproductive for an office environment.”

“And they kicked you out?” Bumblebee asked. “Must’ve been pretty bad. What did you do?”

Megatron’s vents hitched as his processor eagerly overwhelmed every other process with a barrage of memory files: the sickly tension of the office after Swindle’s departure, closed doors shielding hushed voices, the burning glare of a day that would not end. And then Rumble, rushing in, brandishing headlines, photographs, gossip, anxiety. Starscream sneered, Frenzy’s voice drilled in deeper. Energon.

The files simplified after that: rage had caused his optics to short out and he’d gone by feeling, aiming for places where armor crumpled under his fists and fuel lines could be torn at. Hands had wrapped around him, though once he got to that patch of memories, his processor was divided on where: some files placed them on his arms, others around his waist, or yanking back on his head. None of it mattered. They were weak, and that weakness made his fuel burn hotter.

He couldn’t remember the end, and that was the real curse of the events, not their repercussions. When he let them, the memories played on an endless loop, one act of violence triggering another, over and over, hands betraying hands and his own legacy crushed beneath the weight of his fists.

Now, though, hands grabbed back, wrapping around his own and steadying them. Megatron startled, bringing his optics back online so he could meet Bumblebee’s wide, concerned gaze.

“It’s fine, that was too far. I’m sorry,” Bumblebee was saying. “You’re fine, and you don’t have to tell me. I’m sorry. It’s fine.”

“No,” Megatron ground out. He refused to let his vocalizer betray him, voice strong despite the weakness in his spark and frame. “I’m not fine. I attacked one of my senior staff.” He yanked his hands out of Bumblebee’s. “And in return for betraying Quintessa, I received little more than a jolt in the wrist.”

The shift on Bumblebee’s faceplates was not what Megatron had anticipated. He’d expected fear, anger, admonishment. What he received instead was another look he found himself unable to name, though confusion could have been a part of it.

“Do you get all melodramatic like that a lot?” Bumblebee asked.

Megatron had no response.

He’d been accused of many unsavory character traits over time: selfish, impractical, dictatorial, stubborn.

But never that.

Bumblebee had pulled his arms back and settled them under his chin so he could continue to look at Megatron.

“Look, Primus know this is going to sound terrible, but do you ever actually hear how you talk about yourself and the stuff you do?” Bumblebee asked. “It’s always so… I don’t know, distant? From what you’re actually talking about. Like, you have all these big ideas about good and evil, and you use them to construct the way the world is supposed to work, but then you think you can also use them to explain mechs, yourself especially. Like, frag, you actually, physically hurt someone, and it seems like your main concern is how it made a _city_ feel. You put on this big, showy remorse so you don’t have to face that the personal regret actually hurts a lot more.”

Megatron shot up so fast his chair was knocked back.

“You think I don’t feel guilt for what happened?” he snarled.

Bumblebee did shrink back that time, and for a moment Megatron allowed himself to feel the same pleasure that had driven him whenever he got his Decepticons to cease their idleness and manage a day or two of productivity. The way the motorcycle’s optics hardened against him, though, mouth set, exposed shoulder joints tense, yanked Megatron back into the present. He shrank back down, shame dampening his systems.

“Like that,” Bumblebee said. “You know, theoretically, that you’re supposed to feel bad, and I’m pretty sure you actually do. But, you’re also so comfortable with using anger as a tool that it’s starting to use you instead. You’ve lost authority over your emotions, and then bury yourself in an ideological slagheap so you don’t have to actually deal with the problem.”

Megatron stared at the mech as his processor struggled to keep up with the reprimand. Little of what Bumblebee was saying actually got through; most got caught in a fuzzy web of static that was making it difficult to focus and maintain critical thought. It frustrated him. Though he felt raw in a way he hadn’t known in some time, a large part of him wanted to understand what Bumblebee was telling him.

It sounded good: the true sense of good, the kind mechs were willing to work and fight and die for. The kind he’d believed in once, back when the sky had seemed a ceiling to reach toward, rather than an abyss to fall into.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, but he could not affect the growl he’d desired. His vocalizer had, at last, betrayed him.

The smile that came to Bumblebee was different from the one he’d worn earlier. Not quite charming, not even necessarily happy, it was soft, warm, and the dimness of his optics added a melancholy that spoke more to what he was thinking than words could have conveyed. Megatron felt seen, but not in a penetrating way; Bumblebee was doing as he’d said. Paying attention.

“If you want, you could tell me what you did,” he said. “Only as much detail as you’re comfortable with, and how you were feeling.”

Megatron glanced to the door again.

“We might not have much time.”

“That’s okay. This is just a place to start. You of all mechs should know, that’s how change happens.”

Megatron hesitated.

Then, with most of his CPU dedicated to moderation and self-control, he plucked the first memory file from the queue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Chapter 1, I tried to stay relatively close to my original _Dark Cybertron_ inspiration, with a few changes to keep it from being a straight retelling. In Chapter 2, everything took a wild turn and we are now deep in the wilds of AU territory. Big payoffs next chapter, catch ya then!

**Author's Note:**

> Want to see more of what I'm up to? Check out my [Tumblr](https://libermachinae.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/libermachinae)! :D


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